


a disquiet follows my soul

by simplyprologue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 02, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an eight hour march back from Mount Weather, and with so many wounded they have to make camp for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a disquiet follows my soul

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Title is stolen from _Battlestar Galactica_ because if the writers can do it, so can I. Technically a missing scene from "Blood Must Have Blood II," a brief look into why Marcus and Abby are holding hands when they arrive back at camp. Original prompt fill is posted [here](http://ofhouseadama.tumblr.com/post/141126498314) on my tumblr.

They’re forced to make camp at the edge of Mount Weather’s territorial claims – they have no idea of the status of their relations with the twelve clans and with more than half their party injured and four more hours between them and Camp Jaha, Kane directs their ragged band to settle in until dawn. The wounded are laid down on beds of leaves and grass, fires are built, and while talks of a hunting party emerges, no one actually leaves. They left the Mountain with some rations, they will last the hungry until mid-morning, even on such a long walk. 

Clarke examines her mother’s wounds, despite her protests. “Honey, I’m fine. You did a good job with the stitches.” 

“Hey.” Kane’s boots crunch over leaves and branches; it’s too dark to step around them, and there’s no need to be quiet, now. “Your mom’s right. Get some sleep, I’ll stay here.” 

There’s a hard, desperate look in Clarke’s eyes. “I won’t be able to sleep, I should just–”

“Laying down and closing your eyes for a few hours works too,” he tells her, dropping stiffly to the ground beside Abby’s stretcher and unfurling his legs so that they lay parallel to hers. Clarke, perched on the other side, looks warily at him. 

“Please?” Abby beseeches her daughter. 

Kane wonders how much pain she’s really in. 

Pursing her lips, Clarke stares at him. “If she bleeds through her dressings, you’ll come and get me?” 

He’s half-tempted to tell her that if Abby bleeds through her dressings, that the two of them will probably be able to manage. But he’s been where Clarke is, he’s been the one to turn off the light on hundreds of lives. So he takes a breath, holds it, and nods. 

“Hey,” he says, lightly wrapping his hand around her wrist. “I will.”  

Clarke responds with a jerky dip of her chin, before climbing to her feet and stalking off towards the huddle of delinq– _kids_ sitting around their own expertly-constructed fire. Monty Green notices her presence first and makes a space for her between him and Harper, and then wraps his arm around her shoulders. It’s not until Clarke’s shoulders relax that Kane looks back to Abby. 

“How much does it really hurt?”  

Gritting her teeth, she glares at him. “Who says it hurts, Marcus?” 

Sighing, he lies down onto his side, and takes one of her hands in both of his – there’s no use in arguing with Griffin women. And despite the adrenaline bounding through his bloodstream, he’s exhausted, and his arms hurt from struggling against the hand restraints in the Mountain’s experimentation den. He bites down on the biting retort on the tip of his tongue –  _well, I heard you screaming pretty loudly on that table –_ and forces himself to be gentle. If anyone deserves gentleness now, it’s the Griffin women. 

“Abby,” he breathes. “Please. I know you’re in pain.” 

Closing her eyes, she breathes heavily through her nose and then turns her head to the side to face him. What she sees in his face, he doesn’t know, but her own softens for a moment and then contorts into an excruciating mask. 

He should have known, he thinks.

“Okay,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over her hand. “Can I do anything?” 

Her teeth bite into her lip, and she shakes her head. 

“Okay, okay.” Sidling up closer to her, but not close enough to disturb her leg, he slides his other hand into her hair. The soft brown strands are in tangles; tenderly, he massages his fingertips over her scalp, then her temples. “Okay, just – just, I’ll let you know if someone is coming over. Just stay with me, Abby.” 

Her breathing is shaky and uneven; even in the dim firelight he can see how pale she is. She fights for every breath, body shaking as her muscles tense and release. Her limbs are frozen around the puncture wound on her thigh, her abdomen seizing as she tries to keep herself still through the roiling bouts of pain. 

“I’m right here,” he says, squeezing her fingers. 

_You don’t have to be strong._

With a hitched moan, she grabs at his shirt front, twisting her fingers into the fabric. It pulls him down to her, until their faces are level, their mouths an inch apart. He can feel the breaths passing through her parted lips on his chin. 

Swallowing hard, he cups her cheek with his hand, carves out her cheekbones with his fingers. “Lay down, Abby. Do you think propping up your leg with my jacket would help?”

She groans, leaning forward – her lips miss his mouth, but land on his cheek. 

“I’m cold.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, easing out of his jacket one side at a time as to keep her steady in his arms. He rests it over both of them, meeting the top of her blanket to the bottom of her chin and curls up against her side, careful of her injured leg. “Better?” 

Her head turns towards him again, her forehead beaded with sweat. 

“Thank you.” 

Shifting her weight over the leaves and the canvas of the stretcher, she fights for a more comfortable position. Kane watches her closely – the furrow of her brow, the weakness in her shoulders and neck, the glassy countenance threatening to shatter and break under the weight of her wounds. “Try to rest, Abby.” 

“Not until she does,” she murmurs, pressing her nose to his throat. 

Disquieted, Kane hums. 

And says nothing. 


End file.
